10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 64: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Dogra smiled again. “Here—take this and show me how a red-hot holds his gat.” And the automatic passed from Dogra’s gloved hand to Willy’s bare fingers. “Like this,” demonstrated the lad. “Not quite,” Dogra shook his head. “A real rodman keeps his wrist ' straight. The recoil from a heavy gun would break it, if he didn’t. Yes, that’s right. Now if you wanted to hit a man over the head, how would you hold it?” Willy reversed the automatic and grasped it by the shiny barrel. Vesey chuckled as if he were enjoy- ing the lesson. And he was. “No,” Dogra frowned. “You might jar the hammer, And with the muzzle pointing at you—where would -you be?’ Willy bit his lip. “Gee, I won’t muff again. Ask me something else.” “How do you load it?” Dogra obliged him. The lad took out the clip and held it up. “Now put it back,” prompted Dogra. “And give me the rod.” Willy replaced the clip and handed over the gun. Dogra took it but did not return it to Vesey. Instead he held it lightly in his gloved hand. Vesey leaned forward and touched Joe’s shoulder. “Slow down. This is the street,” he clipped. Looking out, Willy saw that they were in the downtown business sec- tion. Skyscrapers loomed majestically on both sides of the narrow street. Suddenly Vesey tapped Dogra’s knee and pointed toward the entrance of a towering office building. The street-light overhead showed two men standing at the curb in conversation. “That’s Ted in the gray suit,” Vesey barked. “The big mug standin’ next to him—is Reynolds!” Dogra nodded curtly. Releasing the safety catch of the automatic, he poked its muzzle through the open windew— Crack! Crack! Crack! 10-STORY DETECTIVE The crashing reports of the auto- matic froze Willy to a chunk of ice. Dimly he saw the man in the gray suit break into a run and disappear around a corner. The tall, slim man spun dizzily in his tracks, clutched his stomach and pitched to the sidewalk. “Scram!” Dogra ripped out the word. And as the car lurched forward in a fast pick-up, he tossed the smok- ing .38 to the street. Vesey’s hand darted up and flicked off Willy’s hat. Dogra saw it leave the boy’s head and made an awkward fumble to retrieve it. So awkward was he, that the hat flitted out the window and rolled against the eurb. Before Willy could speak, Dogra whirled on Vesey. “Close your win- dow, you punk! The wind will blow out all our hats. Close it!” Willy was so startled by the loss of his hat that he hadn’t noticed that Dogra no longer held the automatic. Then Willy felt himself leave the seat and lurch into Vesey. Joe had jumped the curb to escape a traffic jam at the corner and was racing along the smooth sidewalk. Pedestrians scat- tered before the hurtling car like leaves before a storm. One man was not quick enough. He was later taken home, dead. On went the speeding death car. It took two more victims from the white collar army that works overtime to make ends meet. Lurching blindly around a corner the killer car disappeared down a side street. Willy, heels dug into the floor- boards to brace himself, tried to rub the horror picture from his mind. He felt a hand upon his arm. Twisting his head he looked into the stony, un- emotional face of Dogra. “Steady, boy,” said the gang chief quietly. “Riding the sidewalk is all in a day’s work. It was them or us.” “Yeah, yeah,” came faintly from the lad’s lips. Vesey shoved his face in front of Willy’s. “‘Say, kid, I thought ya want- ed to be a mobster. Cripes! Ya got a yaller streak—” co comicbooks